


Can't Sleep

by cafeanna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Nen, Car Sex, Kurapika has multiple men in his life and I'm sorry, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Trans Kurapika
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafeanna/pseuds/cafeanna
Summary: On nights like this, Kurapika's body is parred down to senses. The feeling of the leather seat against his back, the warm swathe of his hoodie. The dim lights of the dashboard like blue and green stars against the cut of blackness, the pale shadow of Kuroro's hands moving in the dark. He can hear his fingers drumming.Then, Kuroro reaches out, bridging that tentative space between them, brushing aside a curtain of hair, and tucking a strand behind his ear.OR, Kurapika is trying to escape into Kuroro, and Kuroro is indulgent.
Relationships: Kurapika/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 36
Kudos: 141





	Can't Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Exactly a week ago @sapphorror wrote this absolute beast of a fic "Déjà Vu" which, if you haven't read yet, you definitely should because it's everything I've ever wanted in a canon krkr car sex fic. (Like, seriously, what are you doing here? Go read "Déjà Vu" by sapphorror instead.) And then, of course, I get this back from my proofreader, so December is the era of wish fulfillment. 
> 
> And, Inspo for this au comes from the krkr duo that is @llumimi and @htmlres on Twitter, their twts and art kept my krkr Brainrot fed 🥺(especially the baby daddy Chrollo aus, love so much 💕)
> 
> ALSO, Kurapika is dating Leorio in this, but they're not exclusive. If that's not your thing, totally okay, there are many, many lovely fics on the krkr tag to choose from. 
> 
> [vague playlist I promised: "feels" by kiiara, "the hills" the weekend, "Beetlejuice 3x" by life after youth, & "streets" doja cat]

When he calls, Kuroro answers on the second ring.

His voice is all warm as he trills into the phone, half-laughing. "Kurapika, how's it going?"

"Are you busy?" Kurapika asks no preamble, no pleasantries.

"Never for you."

The words sit in his ears, low and dreamy. _Never for you._ It snares on the corner of his chest, something he doesn't want to think too much about and draws himself up against the wall. Kuroro is awake and available and that's enough for now. "Could you come and pick me up? I can't sleep."

The apartment complex feels alive even this late at night. Kurapika can hear the sounds of the tenants bumping around in their units, the muffled volume of a television, the warning growl of a dog—it's too awake, but sleepy somehow, like the shadows under his eyes and knots in his stomach.

The sickly green insomnia hanging in the fog over his mind.

Kuroro's voice is almost background noise, a crackle in his ear. "Yeah, I'll be right there." Kurapika hums a thanks as relief fills his chest. If he closes his eyes, he can hear the shifting on the other line, a scatter of voices, a jingling of keys; Kuroro leaving wherever he is to come and get him. "You at yours?"

The question makes his stomach tighten.

"No. Can I just send you my location?"

"Sure." He hears the snap of the screen door on the other line, all enamel and plastic. It muffles the music thrumming in the background. The line goes oddly quiet, and then the bare materials of Kuroro's voice, lazy and unsuspecting, "Want me to stay on the phone with you?"

It's a question that makes Kurapika think of the early days, times when he would huddle outside his parents' house waiting for Kuroro to pull up, lights dimmed, engine cut, the thrill of possibly being caught churning butterflies in his stomach. "No, I'll wait outside for you."

"Okay. See you in a few."

His voice sounds small when he answers. "Bye."

Kurapika drops the pin and watches the map location pull up on his screen. When Kuroro sends a confirmation and he clicks off his phone, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. The jagged edge of Leorio's spare keys, taken from the hook, click against his nails.

The nervous numbing feeling is back again, working in his gut, chilling his knuckles and climbing into his throat.

He casts a final glance back and makes his way down the hall—passing the noisy neighbors and growling dog—and makes his way to the ground floor. Every step away feels like a weight being lifted off his shoulders. Distance helps.

Leorio's apartment complex is a ten-minute drive from his, but four minutes from Kuroro's. He won't be waiting long.

He rattles the keys in his pocket when he reaches the front door, peering out into the darkness before stepping out and sitting on the concrete steps. The oppressive heat of the apartment lifts almost instantly, night air washing over his over-warm skin.

The soft caress of autumn makes the blue night seem darker, almost sleepy. The circle of apartments standing resolute and quiet, darkness inched aside only by the ring of streetlights.

He is alone.

And the loneliness is gnawing at him.

His phone pings in his pocket, but when Kurapika takes it out to check—heart hammering in his chest—it's just an app notification. Not a text.

It settles that jumpy part of his brain, the one that is asking him why he had not just stayed in bed even while the insomnia settled in. He wants something, and the _what_ he knows is too terrible to name, but for now, he just wants to be outside.

An aftereffect of his old smoking habit, sitting out for hours in the cold, thinking about nothing and scrolling through his phone as his worries burn down to the filter. Right now, his stomach hungers for smoke almost as much as his lungs, but his last pack sits in the back of his underwear drawer at home, untouched since August.

But quitting isn't necessarily not missing.

He can hear Kuroro before he can see him. The pulse of his car's bass shaking the speakers in a reverberating hook that seems to rattle the sidewalk under Kurapika's feet. Twin headlights coasting down the street to the cul-de-sac. Orange streetlights bouncing off the matte black and chrome of Kuroro's pride and joy.

He rises from his stoop against the concrete, lifting a hand as Kuroro circles around, pulling to a stop in front of the building.

As he approaches, the passenger side window rolls down, the music pitching to a low violent murmur. Kuroro's face appears in the shadow, a pale cut of jaw and full mouth. His eyes are looking past him. "Who's place is this?" He asks, all curiosity, no bite. Kurapika narrows his eyes at him.

He knows that it would be best to lie. Maybe, if pressed, he might admit that he is, in some small, secret way, worried that if he tells the truth that Kuroro might tear out of the lot and leave him there. Nowhere to go but back upstairs.

Then there is the other part, the part of him that has never lied to Kuroro, even over small things, because Kuroro's not scared of crazy and Kurapika has never had to be worried about scaring him off.

"Some guy I'm seeing." It starts all smooth, no tremor, but it catches on the corner of his mouth wrong. Leorio certainly thinks more of him than just _some_ _guy he's seeing,_ but it settles in his chest, spoken into being like spell.

The feeling is horribly, regrettably, not mutual.

Kuroro takes Kurapika's admission in stride. His brows tick upwards and he whistles. "Kurapika," he says, askance, "are you making me out to be the other woman?"

It's annoying but teasing.

A good sign.

"Shut up." He says with no real heat. "Can I get in or not?"

Kuroro's lips tug at the corners. "Never said you couldn't."

And he's right. When Kurapika tucks his hand against the doorhandle, it opens without a catch. He slides in, slipping into the cradle of leather interior and buckles his seatbelt as Kuroro shifts gears and pulls out of the lot, engine revving as silently as he came.

Kurapika closes his eyes, sinking into the seat.

Leorio is a heavy sleeper, but he is always complaining about the loud cars that race up and down the road outside his window. Briefly, Kurapika wonders if that might have been Kuroro's doing. If Kuroro, somehow, knew he had started seeing other people and was making a nuisance of himself.

The turn signal ticks in his ear. "Anywhere particular?"

"No," Kurapika sighs. "Can we drive for a bit?"

"Sure."

They make another turn and then the car is roaring towards the main road, shifting into downtown and far away from the apartments.

It's a welcome comfort, riding around with Kuroro, sleepiness pulling at the corners of his vision, the vibration of music against his back. Kuroro always drives fast. First to the stoplight, first to leave. Kurapika used to go with him when he would race, abandoned backroads, nights blitzed neon and loud.

With Kuroro, the dark roads always seemed to extend forever, between the scant light and the white ribbon dividing up the track. The city limits sign rises and falls back in the same instance, the warm rumble of the engine under his feet makes for a soothing sound.

His shoulders drop against the seat in familiarity.

The memory sparks something sensory and deep within him. The barmy heat of a summer night, sweat gathering against the small of his back, and Kuroro, elated at a win bending him over the hood of his car, hot metal and smooth skin, kissing him slow and thorough, in front of _everyone._ Claiming him as _his._

And he had liked that. He liked how pushy and possessive Kuroro could be because Kurapika could push right back.

"I'm changing the music."

Kuroro passes him his phone without another look. It still unlocks under Kurapika's thumbprint, a fact that he blithely ignores as he cues up a playlist, shifting from Kuroro's noise to something with words. He hums, "Mm, still not a fan?"

"I'm more surprised Feitan was able to get any kind of record deal." Kuroro's smile is carved out from a passing streetlight. "It's not my thing."

"Noted." Kuroro says, hand steady on the steering wheel. "You only like sad music." His tone is a long and teasing, but Kurapika watches him turn the dial of the speakers, and his lips peaking at the corners.

The smile on his own face lapses and then strains. He missed _this._

When Kurapika looks through the tinted window, he can see the starlit buildings in the velvet outline of night, a silhouette of lives he will never live and people he will never know. He blinks, focusing on the liquid reflection of his eyes mirrored back at him.

He is not sure why but laying side-by-side with Leorio had left an ache deep in his chest; the fever-itch of want rippling his skin, making him roll out of bed and tiptoe into the hallway. Loneliness branching through his veins. A strange guilt in the soles of his shoes.

He didn't want to wake up Leorio. He didn't want to go home.

He just wanted something.

This close, he is wrapped up in the feeling of _being._ Kuroro's car, the heat curling in from the vents, the gentle rumble of music from the speakers, the scent of the car, mahogany and fast food and the faint smell of weed, almost floral against the backdrop. He can feel himself starting to relax. That annoying, keyed up energy abating.

He wonders what Kuroro had been up to tonight. Thursday blending into a Friday, an early weekend up all hours with his friends.

He is wearing similar attire to Kurapika. Tousled hair, black tee shirt, gray sweatpants. Like he had just jumped out of bed.

Kurapika lets his gaze linger on the dashboard before his eyes slip down to the back of Kuroro's hand, lain politely on the gearshift between them; the pale rise of knuckles and blue veins enticing and familiar. His tongue clicks against his teeth, eyes carving out a profile of Kuroro in the dark.

 _What would you do if I put your hand on my thigh, right now?_ He wonders and instantly feels the space seeped between their seats. He knows Kuroro. He knows his responses. He has the phantom memory of that hand massaging down his knee, fingers skimming against the part of his thighs, a slow, unhurried exploration of shifting hips and easing fingers, engine roaring faster the louder he would go. _His._

However, that was before.

He still wants to, though. Just to see what would happen.

That adrenaline prickled, impulsive kid he had been when he met Kuroro had still rattled around his chest.

Kuroro is looking at him then, the silvery flash in his dark eyes catching against the passing light. They are on the highway, driving further than the length of Kurapika's thoughts and deeper than he is willing to go.

Kuroro's eyes flash to his, attention piqued. "Is the insomnia back again?"

Kurapika blinks at him, eyes feeling heavy in their sockets. "Yeah, I think so."

It's not a new thing. Not new in the terms and conditions, but new in this part of his life and the people around him. It had been a chronic thing since he was a teenager, when nights were long and his body lay stagnant, his mind would run numb-limbed laps around his room until he got up to do something with weird, dead-alive energy.

He used to read. Then, he used to go for runs. Then, he used to call Kuroro.

Now, all he would do is stare at his ceiling or Leorio's, somehow convinced that a change of scenery would help him sleep as he tried to find that pocket of night where he might be able to curl up and sleep without breaking himself apart.

He sighs.

Just another blip in his already irregular sleep patterns. Nothing new.

When he opens his eyes, a new sort of stillness sits in the air, a deliberate silence. Kuroro seeming to be winding himself up for something, all loose-limbed and calm, hand sliding against the edge of the steering wheel. Kurapika watches the shifts of hands with a curious lit. All the little motions leading up to the deliverance of a question at the tip of his tongue.

"Want me to wear you out?"

He is not sure what he is expecting, but _that—_

Kurapika's breath stalls in his chest.

Idly, he is aware of the car coming to a stop but doesn't acknowledge it. His words are choked up in his throat.

 _Wear you out._ He cannot deny the heat that thrills down his spine at the suggestion. Furtive and quiet like some dirty proposition.

And the small part of him that wants to ask _how_ and _in what ways_ and _please._

He swallows, leaning back against the seat so he can offer Kuroro a disapproving look, with a distance. "You're confident." He says, barbs in his tone.

Kuroro offers him a similar look, lips quirking. "Kurapika." Kurapika inhales through his nose, breathing deeply as the anxiety crackles in his chest. The silver in Kuroro's eyes gleams in the faint light. "I think we both know that if you didn't want me, you wouldn't be here right now."

The indication leaves a dizzying thought in his mind.

On nights like this, Kurapika's body is parred down to senses. The feeling of the leather seat against his back, the warm swathe of his hoodie. The dim lights of the dashboard like blue and green stars against the cut of blackness, the pale shadow of Kuroro's hands moving in the dark. He can hear his fingers drumming.

Then, Kuroro reaches out, bridging that tentative space between them, brushing aside a curtain of hair, and tucking a strand behind his ear.

It feels intimate.

Horribly so.

A touch too tender for what Kuroro is suggesting, for what Kurapika is considering—

The darkness outside the car seems deeper, denser than before. There are no streetlights out this far, no orange flickers, no cars, no cops.

Kurapika exhales, the breath shuddering along his ribs.

Kuroro looks at him, eyes skipping from his nose to his cheek to his lips. "We don't have to talk about it, angel." Despite the words, Kuroro makes no advances towards him, no sly advances, no cajoling, just waiting, giving him reign of the situation. Making him choose.

When he sits up and crosses that space between them, Kurapika hesitates for a moment, caught between dark eyes and the night before he eases into Kuroro's gravity.

Despite the heat in his chest, the kiss is gentle. Kuroro melding against him, lips parting under his own. He can trace the taste of something sweet on Kuroro's mouth, sugar and nicotine, sharp against his senses. The taste carves at the hunger in his stomach, tongue sweeping over the roof of his mouth for more.

Kuroro has angled his body towards his, leaning over the gearshift to run his hand along the waistband of sweats, fingers dipping just enough against his skin to leave him wanting.

And he does.

The experimental shift turns heavy as he leans in, ankle straining against the floor, hand gripping the back of Kuroro's seat, Kurapika freeing up the angle until he can rest his hand on Kuroro's thigh, weight shifting, not holding. He can feel the rise of interest under his thumb. In the sweep of Kuroro's tongue.

He takes his time with it, running his hand up and down Kuroro's thigh in a coaxing motion, never quite reaching his destination, but never too far away, working up the anticipation and the steady pull of Kuroro's breaths.

When he runs his palm across the front of his pants, long and slow, teeth nipping at Kuroro's lip, he hums, sounds burning into low mumbles, groans. He works along his length, feeling the hardness growing under his touch. He is fueled on by the hook of Kuroro's fingers against his hip and those deep noises, pitched in the back of his throat, soft and secret as Kurapika leans over him, pushing him back into his seat.

His hand closes around the fullness of it, mind running wild with fantasies of his own. Easing out of his mind.

As Kurapika is figuring out the schematics of climbing onto the driver's side, Kuroro's hand closes over his wrist, stalling his motions. He makes a noise of complaint, but Kuroro leans in to kiss him again, a peck, all cool before his lips brush against the bow of Kurapika's mouth, "Backseat."

A shivering thrill rolls through him.

His shoes are the first to go.

It's a messy tangle, Kuroro's wide shoulders and Kurapika's long legs, limbs folding and jabbing until Kurapika is situated on Kuroro's lap, thighs parted, and large hands moving up the small of his back, fingers branching slow.

Their mouths meet again, gentleness allayed by need, hands searching, tongues twisting, and Kurapika grinds his hips at the pull of a zipper; keys jangling against his phone. He tosses the jacket near the front seat and helps Kuroro out of his shirt, peppering kisses against his neck before settling on the soft stretch of throat under his ear, sucking a bruise while his fingers trace featherlight across those ab muscles and lower still.

"You're impatient," Kuroro purrs, fingers tugging against the helm of his tee shirt. Kurapika breaks to help him, skin prickling with a chill. He can hear the fabric land, but his mind is full of Kuroro. Beautiful Kuroro who moans at the sight of him, hands reach to run up his sides with reverence.

After a moment, his mouth curls into a line. "Hm, what were you doing at your little boyfriend's house?" As he says this his thumb strokes just under his nipple, toying with the barbell piercing.

"Sleeping," Kurapika hums, trying not to fold under such a causal touch, but fails, breath tipping into a moan. "Trying to."

Short-trimmed nails brush against the onyx jewel at each end. Kuroro's brow is inquisitive as if to catch Kurapika in a lie. "I almost forgot you had these."

Kurapika glares at him. "No, you didn't."

"You're right." His chin grazes the valley of his breastbone and plants a kiss, lips warm against skin. "I bought you these."

Kurapika shudders. "You stole them."

"You liked them." Kuroro grins before his arms tighten around him, pulling against his waist to lift him up and lay him down across the seat.

Kurapika can hear the distant hum of the heater, rumbling just below the music, but in the backseat, the cold night fogs against the windows, chasing a chill against his skin, but as soon as Kuroro climbs over him, Kurapika forgets everything that isn't Kuroro.

Kuroro bends down to him, kisses falling off his collarbones before making their way further down. A nipple drags under his thumb, goosebumps dashing across his skin under the roll of hot breath soothing under Kuroro's tipped tongue.

Kurapika arches. A small noise splintering from his chest, low and _needy,_ as Kuroro's teeth click against silver; tugging enough for it feel good, maybe enough for a mark. His leg tucks around Kuroro's hip.

His fingers card through Kuroro's nape, nails dragging along the scalp the way he knows Kuroro likes, grinding against him in the way that has him swearing under his breath, a soft rendition of his name before tending to the other. His other hand thumbing across the other with a practiced touch that has Kurapika arching into his mouth.

It feels nice to be taken apart by someone who knows what they're doing.

The thought makes his body go tepid, frowning as Kuroro gives a particularly hard suck. He doesn't want to be unfair to Leorio, even now, laid out like this. He just wants to feel good. And he didn't exactly agree to be exclusive—

Kuroro's teeth drag against his chest and Kurapika startles, nails scraping, body curling. His forehead bows against the top of Kuroro's in a wince, nose burying in his hair. A brief flash of pain and then the soothing lap of a tongue, and a kiss. Kurapika trembles, fingers gripping against his nape.

"Wh-what was that?"

Kuroro lifts his head, eyes lid and innocuous. "You were drifting," Kuroro says, voice high and thick like a dream. He tips his chin, pulling Kurapika in for a kiss, tongue brushing against his teeth. His mouth drags across his. "Just bringing you back."

His fingers ease and the weight of Kuroro's body settles over him, his bare chest against his own, fingers tangling and kisses slurred and unhurried. He feels like he is going under, swaying into the deep. Kuroro guiding him with stroking hands and affirmations.

It's all beauty and soft touches and curses and his name. Repeated.

The hand on his hip warms, dragging against the waistband of his pants and Kurapika hums, encouraging Kuroro with a hand dragging through his hair as he lifts his hips. His pants slide off, leaving him in his underwear. Kuroro's face tips and he huffs in annoyance. "Kurapika," he says with mock amusement. "I never knew you were a thief."

His nail snaps against the elastic around Kurapika's waist.

Kurapika pretends to think about it, flushed as Kuroro slides a hand under his thigh, lifting him higher. The spider-printed boxers on display. "It's not my fault. You've got narrow hips, I thought they were mine."

Laughter crackles from his chest and between their mouths as Kuroro bends to kiss him again. The curve of his smile tipping the angle of Kurapika's jaw, lips spilling down his neck and onto the bow of his collarbone, distracting him with nipping little kisses, petty punishments, as one of Kuroro's hands slides under the waistband of his stolen boxers.

The initial touch has Kurapika feeling suddenly shy; spine stiffening against the seat, hands sliding around Kuroro's shoulders. Kuroro notices and his expression shifts to something almost fond.

"Aw, baby," Kuroro coos to him, "you're so ready for me."

Kurapika can feel a flush burning in his throat.

"Don't get any fuckin' ideas, Kuroro. I swear to—" His words are cut off by a moan as Kuroro drags his hand down, parting him against the slick gathered on his fingers. It's the gentlest touch and it has Kurapika grinding back against Kuroro's hand, chasing that friction. "— _God,_ yeah."

"Damn," Kuroro exhales, amused. "You _really_ missed me."

His cheeks burn.

Mortification braiding against barbs. "I can leave."

"No, no," Kuroro hums, fingers teasing against him. The twitch of his cheek fighting a grin. "I like you here."

Kuroro breaks him down with a slow rhythm, sliding his fingers until he withdrawals briefly to pull his boxers down, catching on an ankle, lost somewhere near the front seat. Kuroro readjusts, his knee nudging Kurapika's thigh higher, opening him up before Kuroro's thumb brushes against him, drawing a sharp contrast in sensation as Kuroro's ring and middle finger sink in.

His back comes to an arch against Kuroro's chest, breath catching, Kuroro's teeth gliding against his throat, mumbling against his skin. The blunt press of Kuroro's fingers has him clenching down, hips snapping as Kuroro grinds the bend of his thumb hard against him.

He can feel the cool brush of Kuroro's rings, sliding like ice against hot skin.

"That's a good boy." He kisses the corner of Kurapika's mouth; sounds caught between a whimper and a whine before Kuroro is curling his tongue against his.

Then Kuroro's fingers curve up, a beckoning gesture that has Kurapika gasping with the pleasure, hips pushing back against his hand, almost coming undone right then and there until he sees Kuroro's eyes.

Kuroro who is staring down at him. That same too kind smile pulling at the curve of his mouth. His fingers curl up again, harder, and Kurapika bucks against him, a deep moan pulling from his throat.

"You're being so sweet tonight," Kuroro leans over him, lips to his ear, voice low and heady. "Are you not getting what you need, baby?"

The question snaps something in his spine; a restlessness, a lie, an admission in his soft responses and the greedy grip of his fingers. Kurapika gave it all with the softest touches in return.

 _Danger_ spells out across the back of his eyelids in neon cursive.

Kurapika doesn't answer.

And Kuroro doesn't wait.

His voice is not a coo, not like before, but something a little sharper.

"Is that why you called? Were you lying in bed with him, all lonely thinking of me?" His fingers start moving again, a slow ease at first, gaining speed with the flow of Kuroro's words, feeding off the gasps and moans that slip past Kurapika's lips. Thumb moving in a tight circle against his clit. "Can't he get you off the way you like? The way you know you need? Or, is he too scared to get a little rough?"

At the end, Kuroro's hand tightens in his hair, pulling his neck to an arch, as his fingers thrust hard, hitting that sensitive spot again. It feels mind-numbingly good. The noise Kuroro pulls from him sounds barely human, desperate against the leather seat, skin pulling with the drag. Kuroro's breath is barmy against his neck. "Mm, just like _that_."

" _Kuroro,_ fuck, I—" Then, the air gets punched out of his lungs as Kuroro presses into him, again and again.

He pries one hand off of Kuroro's shoulders to stretch behind him, bracing against the car door to push back against those thrusts.

Kuroro is still murmuring to him, nasty little truths and unanswerable questions, all the meanness of white teeth in the dark, smiling as Kurapika sobs against the press of two, now three, fingers and pretty words.

The catch of those teeth nip at the curve of his ear, leaning over him. "And that's okay," he whispers, voice soothing as he slows to a crawl, fingers twisting inside him and then spreading. "Because you know, I know your body better than he ever could."

As if to illustrate his point, Kuroro's mouth lowers to his breast again, tongue flicking against the barbell.

He picks up a steady pace again. Slower than this time, fingers reaching, but not quite _touching_ where he needs them. It's so infuriatingly deliberate, that Kurapika bites his nails into Kuroro's back. He tries to shift his hips, move, and buck against the curling fingers for some relief, but Kuroro curls his wrist, pulling his fingers out and turning Kurapika's interference into a punishment.

"Kuroro." Kurapika grits his teeth, tears stinging in his eyes, but Kuroro just hums, breath a warm chuckle against the side of his face. His fingers return, but not curling, not sweet, just gliding frictionless against him, sticky thumb grazing the seam of his thigh. A touch too light for much of anything.

Frustration burns in his throat.

"You wanna be on top?" Kuroro asks, lips brushing against his ear.

Kurapika shakes his head. He doesn't want to switch positions. He wants to finish.

"Hm," Kuroro mimics Kurapika's whine, elongated and throaty, dragging his fingers in a slow circle, just pressing against where Kurapika wants him, but evading when Kurapika attempts to thrust his hips.

Kuroro presses a kiss to the underside of his chin, then another. "I think you do." He kisses the corner of his mouth, taking measure of his breaths. "I think you'll need a bit more than hands tonight." He pulls Kurapika into a kiss, short, lingering, before pulling away again. "C'mon baby, don't you want me inside of you?"

Kurapika can hear the blood pumping in his ears, drowning out the sound as Kuroro's mouth presses low again, lips tracing the length of his breastbone. He can feel tears peaking in the corners of his eyes. "I wanna come—"

"You will." Kuroro assures, kissing the peak of his breast. "But not on my fingers. Now," His thumb presses against his clit, a touch too hard to feel good, stalling the deep pulse of orgasm he is moving towards, but enough to make him _want_ to move, grind his hips back against his hand. Just to see what Kuroro would do. But he doesn't _have_ the patience for it.

He peers up into Kuroro's eyes.

His expression is tense, if not demanding.

"Do you want to ride me like you miss me, or do you want me to pull your pants back on and drive you back to your boyfriend's house?"

He wants to argue that Leorio is not his boyfriend. The thought makes his teeth clench and his head clear, coming up out from this little daydream Kuroro has him in. Long nights, little sleep. He's tired, and lonely, and horny, but nothing will get solved if Kuroro keeps holding that over him.

He wants to feel worn out.

He wants to feel something other than tired all the time.

Closing his eyes, Kurapika nods.

"Yeah," he sighs, breathless.

"Yeah?" Kuroro's thumb presses down, sending a sharp flash of pain-pleasure up his spine. Kurapika shivers. Struggling to keep his hips from snapping back.

"Yeah," Kurapika repeats, meeting Kuroro's eyes and taking in the shadows on his face, the graceful slope of his nose, the concentration knit between his tiny brows. _He's too good,_ Kurapika exhales, letting the shudder-shakes of nervousness slip from his skin. _And he knows it_.

He reaches to touch Kuroro, hand cupping his cheek. "I want you inside of me."

This close, he can feel the pull of Kuroro's breath, see the glint in his eyes before he leans down to kiss him again, pushing him back against the seat. For a steep, dazzling moment, Kurapika can feel the curve of a smile on Kuroro's mouth, blooming like blood and victory, but the next moment, Kuroro is pulling back and pulling him up, adjusting his seat in the car.

Kurapika sits back as Kuroro leans up to adjust himself. His eyes cut across the sweatpants, the line of Kuroro's arousal peaked to attention and, knowing his audience, Kuroro hooks his thumbs against his waistband, pulling down until his cock springs free.

His length curves towards his abdomen, flushed at the tip and a shadow chasing down the underside of vein. The slick head of precome makes Kurapika's mouth water. He watches as Kuroro wraps a hand around himself—the hand he had been using on Kurapika, he notes, pressing his thighs together—and a low moan issues from his throat.

His lips look red and bitten.

 _I did that,_ he thinks, leaning forward to claim his mouth again, he cannot help the urgency that pulls at him. The deep desire that leaves him feeling empty and wanting. The chase of Kuroro's mouthed words against his throat, _missed me, don't need anyone else, know you better,_ filling his ears with their traitorous little needles and sin-soaked promises.

He presses a kiss against Kuroro's throat, enjoying the indulgent way he preens, humming against Kurapika's lips as they trail down his chest, edging to his abdomen when Kuroro's hand tucks into his hair.

"I have condoms in the glove compartment."

Kurapika blinks.

Glances up.

Kuroro licks his lip, fist twisting on the downstroke. "You wanna grab them for me?"

It pulls Kurapika out of the moment, for a minute. He supposes now it makes sense. He always has Leorio use one, and he doesn't exactly know what Kuroro's been up to, or into, these days.

He leans up, kissing Kuroro again, before rising to climbing between the two seats. He glances over the piles of clothes, Kuroro's tee shirt flung across the steering wheel, Kurapika's underwear on the dashboard. His legs cramp as he reaches for the latch on the glove compartment. Kurapika almost snorts when he sees a new box sitting right on top of the owner's manual. He reaches it, nail catching under the cardboard edge when he feels Kuroro's fingers skimming up his thigh.

His breath hitches.

The touch is soothing, the same whisper drags of long fingers, cool rings, and callous palms, but Kurapika can sense the intention behind it, the featherlight brush of callous fingers sweeping up his thigh to his cheek. He tenses. Tries not to tense.

But his lack of rebuttal earns him a sharp smack.

A yelp falls from his lips and Kuroro's palm presses against the mark, guiding his body through the sway. "You gonna hand that to me?" His hand closes around the box and passes it back, breath catching as Kuroro's lips graze across his flank.

He can feel the edge of fingers, working against his skin for another, but when he looks back, Kuroro's eyes are dark, fingers tapping against his stinging hip.

He eases himself back onto that body, Kuroro acting as his guide with steady hands, helping with the awkward angle as he shifts down, knees pressed up against the seat to give Kurapika room to move.

The muscles in his back tense as soon as Kuroro has him settled, the tight line of his back arching to where Kuroro is curved against him. Kuroro's chin hooks over his shoulder, letting him feel the timber of Kuroro's voice against his neck.

His hands skate up his sides, across his ribs to cup his breasts, thumbs flicking against his piercings. Kurapika feels lips press against his shoulder, working back towards his nape.

He rocks back against Kuroro and earns a soft groan. "You're always so good." He mumbles and, as he speaks, one of his hands travels downward, palm stroking down his abdomen, to his navel. "Open your legs for me."

He does so, moving with Kuroro as his knees fall open and he tips back into the maddening rhythm of Kuroro's hand, gasping. When he looks down—flushed chest, taut stomach, tight cords of forearm—he can only see beyond the extent of Kuroro's fingers, the heat in his stomach building against the burn threatening to swallow him whole.

But, he doesn't want to wait. He wants _now._

And he begs Kuroro for it, with a desperate thrust of his hips, pressing back hard until Kuroro reads his intentions. Mouth falling against his bowed spine. "Lean up a bit."

It's difficult to do, legs trembling and fingers gripping weakly, as Kuroro prepares himself behind him, rolling on the condom and pulling him back.

When Kuroro finally, finally nudges against him, Kurapika is gut-punched and breathy, leaning up on his tiptoes as Kuroro guides his hips, teeth against his shoulder as Kurapika sinks back onto him. He bites his pleasure between his lips, face tipping towards the ceiling. His hand reaching back to bury itself in Kuroro's hair and is rewarded with a sweet kiss. A hand passing over his abdomen.

Kuroro sets a punishing pace. The car filling with the sounds of skin on skin, noises tipped from throats, and Kurapika's babbling pleases. He grabs the seat in front of him for leverage and whimpers at the pull of Kuroro's hands, thumbs digging against his hips, pulling him back and harder, again and again.

He thinks, for a moment, for a half a thought—

—but it is chased away by heat, burning down his spine in a too hot, too heavy trail that leaves him _keening_ as his nails sink into the upholstery.

Suddenly, he is being pulled back against Kuroro's chest, angle shifting, Kurapika cries out, scrambling for purchase against the body under him. Feverish kisses lain against his throat and shoulders as Kuroro grinds him down against his cock, hand pressing against his chest. "Fuck, angel, you feel so good."

Kurapika cannot be bothered to answer. His head tipping back against Kuroro's shoulder, lips in his hair. "Please, I just wanna—I _really_ want to," Kuroro angles his jaw, lips catching his own. Kisses slow, deep, _distracting_ as Kuroro's hands slip against him. Kurapika clenches down on a gasp.

Kuroro groans against his throat, nose digging into his jaw.

And then, Kuroro stops.

Kurapika nearly sobs at the unfairness of it all, shifting his hips against the bracket of Kuroro's palm, _searching._ "—your face. I want to see your face."

Kurapika nods and Kuroro helps him maneuver, feet sweeping off the floor, knees bending, hands gripping—

"Good, good," Kuroro hums, guiding himself back in and picking up that smooth rhythm once more. Kurapika catches himself, hands scrambling against Kuroro's shoulders for balance. Kuroro's hand sweeps the hair of his face and Kurapika is blessed with his favorite sight.

The way the color rises high on Kuroro's cheeks, almost violent against the splotch on his chest like a fire building inside him. The rosy quality to his lips, bitten and bruised from Kurapika's kisses.

He's missed this. _This_ especially.

He misses the way Kuroro pulls this side out of him, fingers digging, demanding _,_ the palate of his tongue saccharine and _filthy._

Fingers slipping down to where they are joined to ride it out as Kuroro continues to thrust into him. His body comes to an arch, back bowing under the weight of hands. His hands bracing against the seat, palms sliding against the interior as Kuroro's palm pull him down again, and again, and again—

He slants his gaze to Kuroro one breath, two seconds, too long, and his hips thrust.

When he comes, it is with a scream, teeth sinking against sound, fingers cramping as he coaxes himself to one the last thrust, hips angling down, clenching tight as Kuroro follows with a two, three, _four_ —spilling into the condom, lips catching against his collarbone.

He can feel the shift of Kuroro deep inside. The heel of Kuroro's hand feeling against his abdomen, smile soft and satisfying. Its strange feeling of being slick and messy without him. Rather than pull off, Kurapika curls against him, catching his breath. Kuroro hums, vibrating beneath the nestle Kurapika has made.

Sweaty and sated, the post-orgasm pulls the haze from his mind.

It's not enough.

The thought of it makes him panic as he listens to the rise and fall of his breathes, feeling the enticing glide of Kuroro's fingers against his back. Despite the grip of it all, the heated kisses, the words, the sweat, it all feels too desperate, too quick. Not enough. Over too soon from lack of contact— _missing each other—_ not enough to sate, but enough to stir.

Kuroro passes a hand down trembling line of his thigh, muscles well-used and worn, fingers hooking against where a rosy mark blossoms against his hip. Kurapika shivers and moves back.

Kuroro always looks his best afterward, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, happy little smile. He looks almost sweet despite the annoying little devil that makes its home in his heart. His fingers drag across his abdomen, still slick from Kurapika, drawing a trail. His smile is a little dreamy.

"What're you thinking, angel?" Kurapika decided long ago that if his toes do curl when Kuroro calls him that, then he doesn't have to acknowledge it.

His lips part, but instead of answering, he leans forward pulling Kuroro in for a kiss. His mouth has a tinny quality to it, that bitten-red lip fits nicely between his teeth and Kurapika apologizes with a gentle brush of his tongue. Kuroro's fingers dig harder against his back, a small noise in his throat issuing from clench of Kurapika's thighs and, not wanting to waste the moment, Kurapika shifts his hips.

Kuroro makes a soft sound in his ear, questioning something Kurapika doesn't answer as he shifts back again, slow and deliberate, being sure to lift his hips high as he can against the pull of his muscles. He can feel the tremble of Kuroro's thigh under his, the soft exhale against his lips. "Pika, hey—"

Kurapika shushes him with another kiss, sweeping his tongue past his lips, and Kuroro obliges, quivering as Kurapika moves atop of him. A perfect seat.

He feels a bit regretful of the condom, though. He wants to be messy with Kuroro.

And he tells him so, still shifting in that smooth, deliberate way. Enjoying the feeling of Kuroro's muscles twitch as Kurapika slides back against him, moaning sweetly.

"What are— _fuck_ —what are you doing?" Kuroro growls, anger nipping with blunt nails into skin, but Kuroro's body betrays him, his hands coming up to cradle Kurapika's thighs, aiding his tired legs as Kurapika shifts to find better leverage against the seat. Ankles hooking against knees, lifting _._ _Better_.

"Mm," Kurapika hums thoughtfully, peaking through his lashes at him. A deeper flush is filling under Kuroro's skin, dark curiosity glittering in those eyes. "You've got another one in you." He moves his hips in a tight circle. The pin-pricks of pleasure tingling up his spine. "I can _feel_ it."

Kuroro's gut-punched expression is a triumph.

His lips part with awe, that blissful expression melting down into a sin-simmering gleam in his eye. A wide smile. "Fuck, I've missed you."

 _I've missed you too._ He nods, leaning in to kiss him.

It is one kiss blending into another and another, folding over love into teeth.

Kuroro's break down is a concession of phases, both desperate and sweet. Kurapika riding against him as his head leans back, mouth open in a pour of desire, tongue red and rolling, promising Kurapika everything under the sun with the right thrust of his hips or the grip of his nails.

Kurapika cannot help but stare at him, tracing the lines of those lips, that throat.

Despite his grand words and the heat in his stomach, he wants to curl up against him and ride slow, and that's what he does, rising hips and gut-deep clenches, hands running across that body he has missed so much, filling out the gapes in his memory as Kurapika takes him deep and grinds to take him deeper.

Kuroro filling him up each time.

It's horrible how well-suited for each other they were.

They were never supposed to be more than a one-night stand, a passing fling, friends-with-benefits. They were young, it was summer, the time of romance and bad decisions, parties and bare torsos and wandering hands, conversations at three a.m. and kisses that burned like the end of a cigarette.

It was never meant to be a relationship. Never meant to be anything, but it's what they got. Arguments about stupid shit, loud weekends with Kuroro's weird friends, late-late night drives when Kurapika was too keyed up for sleep, and texts that warranted a lock on his phone.

It is something that was never supposed to begin, and in that way, it never really ended.

Kurapika pushes past the turmoil of his own thoughts and sinks back into the moment, Kuroro breathing heavily against him, oversensitive and writhing on his own backseat, kisses pressing against his throat.

Kuroro lets him do what he wants, rising slow with hips like the tide, shuddering through his own sensitivity until he can feel himself starting to get worked up again. He cards a hand through Kuroro's hair, pulling back, bearing the long line of throat. "How much have you missed me?"

Kuroro hums, brow furrowing in concentration. "Pika, please."

It feels good to make him say it.

"Mm, no, I want to know. Tell me." He hums with the length of Kuroro's sigh and thrusts against him. "Or, I'll pull off," he leans in to whisper in his ear, working his hips slowly upward as Kuroro's breath goes higher, lips parting. "And I'll make you finish by yourself while I watch."

And then he sinks back down.

The slide is magnificent, making him feel wet and full, and curving just enough to _almost_ touch that spot—

He hears a mumble, a curse, a laugh. Punched-out. "You're a demon."

"Demon?" Kurapika hums, clenching against Kuroro on the descent just to hear his breath catch. He smiles. "I thought I was an angel?"

"No," Kuroro exhales, fingers trembling against his thigh. "You're a v-vindictive little demon." His fingers hook around the back of Kurapika's knee, the other landing against his ribs to steady him. Kurapika smiles, overconfident, and tosses his head to flick his hair out of his face as he rises, too quick, and nearly brains himself against the car ceiling. Kuroro's hips snap after him and he slips out.

Kurapika shudders at the loss.

Their eyes meet, Kurapika climbing high against the seat and Kuroro's cock hovering at half mast, the edge condom slipping over. Delicately as he can, Kuroro peels the condom off, pinches and tosses it into a bag on the floor. His eyes meet Kurapika's, silent question burning in their depths.

Kurapika licks his lips.

"Lay down."

Kuroro does as he is told and Kurapika climbs over him, knee sinking between Kuroro's hip and the seat. Kuroro's hands wrap around his waist as Kurapika runs his hand over him, thumb slipping against the glide before he is rolling his hips, taking Kuroro with a new, thrilling sensation. The drag of skin against him is fuller, more satisfying.

The heat rises to a fever-pitch as he curls his hips down, pulling at that hypersensitive edge in a way that has Kuroro bucking against him, every roll of his hips hitting deep and hard and _just_ where he needs it.

Second time almost faster than the first—

He comes, orgasm rippling through him as he continues to ride Kuroro, pulling him through until his hips are snapping up against Kurapika's, sweat slicking the backs of his thighs and where they are joined, the stretching burning into a gentle ache.

He feels dirty.

Worn out like he wants to be.

Humming, Kurapika falls forward, the motion pushing his hips back as he leans over Kuroro, lips catching his for a lazy kiss. Kuroro's hands are still gripping at his waist, tension easing as he presses against the flower petals bruised into his skin.

Kuroro's voice is an underwater mumble against his temple, "Shall I hitch myself up to go again, or is this all you'll need of me this evening?"

Kurapika snorts, burying his face in Kuroro’s neck. The lull of release making him loose-limbed and sleepy.

His lips taste salty, the curve of Kuroro's throat, a deep hollow. _I've missed this._ He thinks. _I've missed him._ He sinks against the body beneath him, trembling in the collision of his thoughts.

He had been half in love with Kuroro before they ended things and now he didn't know what to do with that affection. Those feelings were just there, ever-present, and when he looked at Kuroro, they were as real and horrible as ever.

Kuroro's hand tugs through his hair, pulling his fringe off his forehead. "You're thinking too hard again." His voice is reverent and overwhelmingly fond, pinching at his chest. "Let's get cleaned up." He nods and Kuroro lifts a brow. "Hungry?"

Kurapika pauses a moment, thinks about it. "Yes."

Kuroro hums, fingers tapping against his hip. "I think we might have to eat in the car." Then lower, "Since one of us just had to be on my dick so bad—"

Embarrassed, Kurapika ducks his face down again, testing his teeth against that throat. "Ohmigod, shut _up_!" The vibration of Kuroro's laughter rumbles against his chest and when Kurapika leans back to glare at him, he stalls at the sight of Kuroro, so beautiful in the aftermath, and the weight of his grin brings a new heaviness to his chest, held there by everything he doesn't say.

And, slowly, his ire begins to sink.

**Author's Note:**

> and then Kuroro takes Kurapika to Denny's where he can feed Kurapika pancakes in the parking lot while he falls asleep.
> 
> Yeah, so, I've been high-key wanting to do a car fic for the aforementioned car gif forever. Though, this is not at all as its depicted 😏 I’m happy with the results 💕
> 
> If you haven’t yet, go read “Deja Vu” by sapphorror bc that fic is everything
> 
> I would love to read your thoughts? Concrit? Blatant roasting? 🤗 I've been spotted creeping about my business on twt @cafeannafics
> 
> -cafeanna


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